Love Games
by DevynQ
Summary: Charlie finds herself stranded in the wilderness alone…well, Sebastian Monroe being the one exception of course. She's not entirely sure he counts though, not after what he's done. S2/E4 right after those guys drug Charlie and Monroe swoops in to save her.
1. Chapter One - Stranded

**Hi, everyone! This is my first SebastianXCharlie story, as well as my first fanfic in the Revolution fandom! And before anyone comments, SEBASTIAN AND CHARLIE ARE NOT RELATED. I actually had to look that up myself because for so long I assumed Miles and Bass were brothers, but they are just best friends, nothing more. Therefore, Chass (my ship-name for them) is possible, and no incest is necessary! Hallelujah! Now, as of right now I'm thinking this fic will be a five-chapter short story, but who knows – if I receive many positive reviews and if I have more ideas then I might continue with it. We'll see! Happy reading and lemme know what you think! xo**

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~**Chapter One: Stranded~**

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_CHARLIE_

My head aches insufferably. I can hear my heartbeat hammering at my ears like the monotonous beat of several massive, unseen drums. A headache rages against my temples, pulsing behind my eyes. It hurts, it _agonizes_, but I've survived worse. My throat's as dry as an empty riverbed and my muscles tremble, shaking with exhaustion. All of these signs combined make me hyper-aware of the fact that the state of my body is less than ideal, and that's so not good. In this new world, being fit and healthy means surviving, and if my body is suffering….well, than so will I, sooner or later.

Cautiously opening my leaden eyes, I flick a glance around at my immediate surroundings; trees. Lots of trees and plants and drooping foliage. And there's a smell in the air, one of smoke and…wet. It must be raining. At least I can breathe easier because of that. Aside from the smoky scent, however, everything smells new and clean. I take a moment to just lie there, basking in that feeling. It's been so long since anything seemed even remotely clean. Lately my life has consisted of ash and dirt and blood and death. Rain is something I enjoy. One of the only things, really. Inhaling one last time, I tense my sore muscles and pull myself into a seating position. It's a struggle, but I manage.

Although once I successfully right myself, I kinda wish I hadn't.

There's a man sitting on the opposite side of the campfire, directly across from me. The majority of his features are in shadow, but there's one defining factor that stands out. I know almost instantly who it is, and my stomach drops so fast that I have to tighten my throat to keep the bile from rising out of me. Flaming disgust and another unidentifiable emotion battle for control within me. Before the man even shifts my way, I know which one will win. His eyes shine an alarmingly vivid blue against the dark night sky.

"You're awake," Monroe states in his usual gruff voice.

Indeed, I am. But I don't really know how to answer him, not yet. I haven't quite gathered all my wits. His direct stare is making me feel funny, and my stomach still feels uncomfortably nauseated. Besides, one thought takes up the majority of my focus – _Will he kill me_? I'm truly not sure. After all, we've obviously been settled down for some time and he hasn't actually _done_ anything to me while I've been out.

Wary, I shift slightly to the left, and his gaze lazily tracks my movement. "Where are we?" I ask, my voice low and hoarse. I barely refrain from hacking.

"Somewhere in the Plains Nations," he says idly, as if this doesn't necessarily bother him, the fact that we are more-or-less directionless. He pokes a stick into the fire to rekindle it.

I suppress a groan as I struggle to remain upright. My back aches so freakin' bad, and my legs aren't doing much better by comparison. "How long was I out?"

"About a day."

My jaw tightens. His brief, uninformative responses are already pushing my buttons and I've been awake _how_ long? Three minutes?!

Wobbling to my knees, I keep inhaling and exhaling, keeping my breathing steady. I have to recuperate as quickly as possible if I'm going to escape. And that's obviously what I have to do here. Monroe is bad news, and it's only a matter of time until he attacks me in some sadistic way. So okay, maybe he _did_ keep watch over me while I was conked out, but that hardly matters when faced with the fact that he's responsible for killing hundreds of people and encompassing the essence of a true monster.

"Woah, woah, steady there," Monroe says suddenly, reaching out a hand. I instantly jerk away from the contact, wincing at the thought of his hand touching my skin…or any part of me, for that matter. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I have to get out of here, what do you _think_?" I spit, managing to get one foot under me before I collapse back to the ground, still dizzy. My head feels weird, airy.

"I _think_ you should take it easy," he says mildly, watching as I take another moment to catch my breath. "You can't go running off just yet. You've at least got to let the drugs wear off before you attempt anything."

My face sets into a hard mask. "Why are you here?"

He stares at me humorlessly. "Well, where else should I be, Charlie?" My name on his lips makes me blink once with surprise. "Honestly, what else could I possibly be doing right now? It's not as if I'm a wanted man."

I don't like his sarcasm one bit. It's rubbing me the wrong way. Gritting my teeth, I say, "Well, _I'm_ not a wanted man, and I have no reason to be here…with _you_, of all people. I'm leaving."

He stares into the fire for a few seconds, his blue eyes illuminated by the flickering flames, before shrugging carelessly. This makes me even more furious. Huffing, I drag myself to my knees and eventually to my feet, checking off-handedly that I still possess my belt equipped with my knives. I must've dropped my crossbow back on the road, but I'll have to do without that for a little while longer. The main focus on my ever-lengthening agenda right now is getting as far away as possible from Sebastian Monroe, even if that means I have to wander around virtually weaponless.

Monroe doesn't say anything else; in fact, he isn't looking at me or even in my general direction. So I wobble forward a few steps, pausing a moment to gather my bearings, and continue towards the main road. I leave the camp and Monroe behind, struggling to keep my eyes ahead. I'm actually way more tired that I originally assumed, and all my eyes want to do is rest. Still, I soldier on, resisting all weakness. Turning left, I wander down a barren, moonlit road, empty except for several abandoned wagons left along the tree line. My bones ache, and I'm exhausted down to my very core, but I can't let that stop me. Several small animals rustle within a small patch of bushes to my left, but I pay them no mind. _Onward_! I think, half-deliriously. _Must_…_travel_…_onward_!

Three hundred yards from the hastily constructed campsite, my legs give out, and I hit the ground hard, my chin scraping along the worn cement road. I lie there, arms splayed, breathing labored, knowing that this little excursion has cost me more energy than I have to spare.

_But that's all right_, I think sluggishly. _As long as Monroe can't catch me_…


	2. Chapter Two - Unintentional Lust

**~Chapter Two: Unintentional Lust~**

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_BASS_

_Fuck me_, he thinks morosely. _This wasn't supposed to happen_. She's a mere child! What in God's name has he been thinking, following her around? Oh, wait. The former general shakes his head. He doesn't believe in God. Maybe that's why he's found himself in this unfortunate predicament. To an outside party, his feelings might be viewed as….unseemly. And rightly so. For fuck's sake, he's twenty-one years older than her! And yet, at the age of 41, Monroe can't remember ever feeling as infatuated with a woman as he is with his little spitfire, Charlotte Matheson.

He and Miles were hormone-ruled young adults, usually drunk and sometimes a little bit stoned, while Charlie was an innocent toddler attending kindergarten. Miles had been his best friend for years, and he had looked on Charlie with affection and amusement for most of his life. But now, after seeing her again after nearly fifteen years, he finds that his feelings for her have altered drastically. Gone are the days of training wheels and sippy cups. Charlie is tall and lean now, her jeans slung low on her prominent hips. Her mane of blonde hair reaches halfway down her back, and Monroe finds that her figure has filled out quite nicely. She's just so goddamn…_alluring_!

Grumbling to himself, Monroe flings his stick into the waning fire, knowing that by now Charlie should have returned. He knew she wasn't fit to travel again, much less by herself, and he thought that by letting her make her own decisions, it would be that much sweeter when she came back, defeated and probably lightheaded, to take a seat by his side near the fire. But he should have known better. Charlie is the most stubborn person he knows. She's probably out there somewhere, sitting by the side of the road, too tired to move on any further. His jaw clenches. He'll have to go look for her.

Stamping out the fire, Monroe sheathes two knives and two throwing stars into the waistband of his jeans. It's only been fifteen minutes, but that's more than enough time for Charlie to have come back to him. He's angry at himself for even allowing her that much freedom. He should've shot down her declaration that she was leaving and tied her to a tree instead. After what happened at that seedy bar, he doesn't trust Charlie to travel alone. She's more vulnerable than she understands.

Stowing his pack beneath a crop of dead leaves and rocks, Monroe sets out, blending into the wilderness seamlessly. Over the years, he's become a pro at stealth and evasion; the only way someone will find him is if he allows them to. Sliding through the trees and tricky foliage, Monroe takes in the empty road with one sweep of his calculating eyes. Nothing seems to be moving in either direction, a sign he considers somewhat positive, if not (in a sense) a bit ominous. Lack of movement means zero chance of a threat appearing, but that also signifies that Charlie has most likely already collapsed by the side of the road…somewhere. It's so dark out, he just might miss her.

But then, luckily, something catches his attention up ahead. It's a wavering form, definitely human. He picks up his pace, ever mindful of being as quiet as possible. The waning moonlight glints off her blonde hair like sparks on metal, and he nearly breathes out a deep sigh of relief. She's okay. True, she hasn't made it very far (and the fact that she hasn't turned around still bothers him greatly) but for the most part, he's just thankful that nothing obscene happened to her while he briefly allowed her out of his sight.

So relieved is he that he accidently steps on a small branch, snapping it in two. The crack echoes in the silence, and he sees Charlie jerk suddenly up ahead. She's only ten feet away. She glances swiftly over her shoulder, but apparently passes it off as a bunch of small animals and continues on her slow way. Monroe realizes he's been holding his breath. He lets it out slowly, his eyes narrowing on the figure in front of him. Now, how will he convince her to return with him? That's going to be a feat in and of itself…

But just as he considers jumping her from behind, Charlie stumbles. Her feet, which have been dragging for the last thirty or so yards, tangle, and she trips and falls to the ground. Her body makes contact with a muffled _wump_, but she doesn't move or attempt to right herself. _Ah_, Monroe thinks. _So her breaking point wasn't so far off after all_.

After a minute of impatient waiting, he steps out of the woods and onto the road, careful at first to keep a wide birth around Charlie, in case this is a carefully thought-out setup. All his years as President of the Monroe Republic have taught him that paranoia can, at times, be his best friend. But the girl truly seems to be out cold. Monroe kneels down beside her, checking her pulse. Slow, but it's there. Hefting her up into his arms, mindful of the knives strapped around both of their waists, he carries Charlie back to their smoldering campsite, where he lays her down in the back of a lopsided wagon with a broken wheel. It won't be many hours until she wakes up, probably not even until mid-morning. Monroe is perfectly fine with that. He needs that time to think about things, consider their precarious position and where they stand.

Gathering his pack, Monroe slings it into the back of the wagon and jumps in, situating himself against the back wall. Man, he wishes he had a cigarette. Unfortunately, now that he's been reduced to a mere commoner with not a single compliant soldier willing to do his bidding in sight, a thin piece of straw will have to suffice. Positioning it in the corner of his mouth, he leans back against the hard wooden wall of the wagon and waits for morning while Charlie sleeps solemnly before him.


	3. Chapter Three - The Start of A Long Day

**Yes, I understand these are relatively short chapters, but that's just how I roll. I'm like a young version of James Patterson. Seriously, his chapters are literally three pages long. Sometimes even less. Don't hate.**

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**~Chapter Three: The Start of A Long Day~**

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_CHARLIE_

Something heavy drops onto my stomach, and I'm so startled that my semi-dreamlike haze evaporates. I'm instantly wide awake, my body tensed and cautious for whatever threat might be lurking nearby. I glance down and see what looks to be a wrapped bundle of…something…resting on top of me. I snatch it up, moving abruptly away from the source of my weariness.

Monroe is sitting contentedly nearby, too close for my comfort, and he appears to be chewing on a chicken leg. We're in a confined space, probably a small room or maybe a wagon by the looks of our wooden surroundings. Sunlight streams through the cracks in the broken slats. Still, it's so suffocating in here, made even more claustrophobic by the fact that I have to share it with this man. Speaking of the devil, Monroe wipes the grease off his chin with a clean towel in a manner I would actually call refined and smirks at me.

"Oh, sorry, did I wake you?" He sounds anything but sorry.

"What is this?" I ask instead, trying to keep my tone neutral. I gesture to the thing in my hand.

"A rabbit leg. Obviously," he adds.

"Why is it wrapped in a towel?" Even as I'm questioning him, I feel that something isn't right. My mind is currently drawing a blank, and I think that's exactly the problem here.

He shrugs and resumes eating. "I didn't think you'd want me touching it," he explains through a mouthful of meat.

And, in fact, I shudder at the thought of him touching my food, or anything that belongs to me, so maybe he's not so far off. Yet there's still something I'm missing here, some important clue that probably shouldn't have escaped my mind… As I scowl, my face throbs at the sudden movement, and my hand instinctively reaches up to brush against a giant bruise on the side of my jaw.

"What – " I start, and that's when I remember. Without even blinking, I'm up and lurching towards the ragged opening of my prison. Monroe grabs me from behind before I've taken more than a step or two, and his arms wind around my chest like two boa constrictors, pulling me back into the depths of the wagon.

"Let go," I grunt, jamming my elbow into his rock-hard stomach. He doesn't even appear to flinch. I writhe, kick, and jerk, making every attempt to free myself, but it's no use. Monroe has his back up against one of the walls, and his arms are squeezing me so tight I'm afraid for my lungs.

"Are you done?" he asks mildly. Sagging, I let him ease me to the uneven floor of the wagon, his arms not releasing me until it's clear that I've no intention of making a run – or leap – for escape any time soon.

"Why?" I ask simply, hunkering in the far corner and protectively wrapping my arms around myself.

"You're not ready to survive out there on your own just yet," he replies, sitting down less than a foot in front of me. He starts picking at a piece of the rabbit, grease coating his quick fingers.

"What's it matter to you?"

"It doesn't. Though what _does_ matter," he continues, scraping at several lingering slices of meat on the rabbit's leg bone, "is finding your Uncle Miles. He's no doubt with your mom, so it appears we're looking for her, too." The thought doesn't seem to sit too well with him, for reasons I don't understand.

"So why do you need me again?" I asks sarcastically. Clearly, I'm pretty useless. The question is, why doesn't Monroe see that?

He raises an eyebrow, tossing the rabbit bone out of the wagon altogether. "_You're_ the one who's going to lead me to them. If I approached them alone, they'd attack me, but if they see that you're there too…well, they'll hesitate."

"Oh, good!" I exclaim with mock cheeriness. "So I'm just your insurance, is that right?"

"You got it," he replies absently, shifting through the remaining pieces of the cooked rabbit.

My expression darkens. "Yeah," I don't think so." I make a move to rise to my feet, but Monroe's hand comes down hard on my shoulder. The weight is too much to bear in my weakened state; I plunk back down.

"Who says you have a choice?" he asks with a pleasant smile, eyeing me.

I glance away and say nothing. It's going to be a long day.

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_BASS_

_Goddamnit_, he thinks, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. His torture is never-ending. Ever since he brought Charlie back to camp, he's struggled second-by-second to keep his eyes and hands away from her. Carrying her limp body really hadn't affected him all that much – c'mon, he's sick but not _that_ sick – but restraining her from that pathetic attempt at escape had jump-started his heart. She'd writhed against him, her back to his stomach, her hair flying around her head and her arms beating against his own. Her scent had enveloped him, and Monroe had to reign himself in even as Charlie tried to break away. Unfortunately for her, he had always been a skilled multi-tasker.

Now, as she huddles in the far corner, avoiding his gaze, Monroe sighs. He doesn't like this game. Seek-and-destroy? Battles fought with swords and catapults? _Those_ are the games he can dictate and usually correctly predict an outcome to. But dealing with emotions? No, that's too messy and unpredictable. He'd rather play with his brain than his heart.

"It's getting late," he says at last, observing the way the light steadily grows brighter. It's filtering through the wooden slats at a deeper slant; this sun is rising. "We have to move."

Charlie mutters something unintelligible under her breath but doesn't voice her thoughts aloud. Monroe is acutely aware of her uncooperativeness, but his curiosity (and patience) is low. He slings his worn pack over one shoulder and empties out the burnt twigs still left in his pot. As he stows it away, he eyes Charlie, who hasn't moved.

"Hey," he says, and she shifts her head but doesn't look at him. "Any day now would be great."

"I bet it would," she mutters, probably not realizing that Monroe can hear her.

"Up and at 'em," he continues, clapping his hands. An impatient man by nature, he reaches down, yanking Charlie up by her elbow. She hisses and moves away from him, brushing herself down as if he somehow made her dirty.

"Thanks, but I think I can manage," she snaps, eyes blazing. She tries to shoulder past him.

He catches hold of her wrist, bending it just the slightest bit until her baby blues widen. "Why don't we play nice now, hmm?"

"Let go," she snarls through gritted teeth. Monroe can sense that he's hurting her, and he appreciates the fact that she can hide her pain so well. He releases the pressure on her hand and clasps it between both of his in an unprecedented move he hopes will surprise Charlie into listening. It does.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but you're going to have to learn how to follow my rules until you can rejoin your valiant uncle." He says this last part bitterly. Shaking off this momentary lapse in control, Monroe gifts her with a brittle smile, still holding her aching hand. "So. Obey what I say and everything will be smooth sailing from here. Got it?"

The question is rhetorical. Dropping her hand (with some regret) Monroe jumps out of the wagon, gesturing for Charlie to follow. She moves forward, eyes hard as steel, and grabs hold of the wooden side, but before she can leap down, Monroe's hands are grabbing her waist and his arms are lifting her easily into the air, as if she weighs no more than one of his many knives. Her feet make contact with the ground, but Monroe doesn't release his hold.

"See?" he says softly. "You're safe with me."

A dry lump forms in the middle of Charlie's throat. She's totally taken aback by this weird and unfamiliar Monroe, and she isn't quite sure how to react. Hoping her actions won't bring out his more volatile side, she firmly places her hands over his and shoves them away from her waist. She then pushes him back a step, a pleasant smile touching her lips.

"That'll be enough of that," she says agreeably, then turns on her heel and starts walking.

Monroe feels an admiring smile touch the edges of his lips. _What I wouldn't do for this girl_, he thinks in a what he recognizes as a rare moment of affection. But he promptly shakes the mood off. _That doesn't exclude fucking her, either._

Whistling, he follows Charlie down the empty road, hands in his pockets, loaded gun tucked in the waistband of his Levi's.


	4. Chapter Four - Asking For Trouble

**Thank you guys so much for all the reviews! I didn't expect to get as much as I have so quickly. I'm honestly thinking that I'll probably be extending this story to ten chapters, not just because of the reviews and follows but because I have so many ideas in my head. Please review when you can, it's much appreciated! I'll probably have the next chapter up within the next day or two. Enjoy ;)**

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**~Chapter Four: Asking For Trouble~**

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_CHARLIE_

I don't like this. On more than one occasion during our seemingly never-ending walk, I tried to convince Monroe that we should at least walk side-by-side. But each time, he insisted that I walk in front of him so he could keep a close eye on me. I feel too exposed this way, and this feeling of complete vulnerability is ruining my focus. I really should be concentrating on our surroundings and where we're going, but I can't help but think about Monroe's eyes on my back, digging holes straight through me.

"You know," I try for the umpteenth time, "I would really feel more comfortable – "

"'If you weren't staring at me', yes, Charlie, I know," he interrupts, and even though my back has been to him for the past six hours, I can almost see him rolling his eyes. It's scary how well I'm getting to know him.

"Well," I huff, hoping my faked immaturity will annoy him, "this is stupid." Even so, I don't turn to face him, and my legs propel me relentlessly forward.

"That it may be, but this is how I like things done," he remarks, totally unperturbed by my whining.

"You're so paranoid, it's not even funny," I mutter morosely, kicking some small pebbles out of the way. They fly in all directions, scattering in the underbrush. I wish I could disappear just as quickly, but under Monroe's supervision, that's not likely.

Monroe doesn't respond to this, but I can tell he's not pleased. All the better. His anger may cloud his judgment, and a split-second of distraction is really all I need to escape. Then I can finally find my way to some random town and settle down there until this whole_ I-was-there-when-the-bombs-went-off-and-my-mom-kin da-went-a-little-crazy-afterward-so-everything-fel l-to-pieces_ thing is over. Until then, however – and this new idea strikes me so fast and so hard that I can't believe it's taken me this long to acknowledge it – I'll have to lull Monroe into a false sense of complacency so that he won't be on his guard around me quite so often.

"Hey," I say suddenly, and stop. "I could really use a break." As I turn to face Monroe, I see that he has already drifted to the side of the road and is staring out into the distance. Puzzled, I slowly walk toward him, afraid of what he might have in mind for me. Maybe this is some kind of test. He thinks that by taking his eyes off me for a few seconds, I'll make a break for it here and now. But I'm not that stupid; I can sense a trap as well as I can make one.

"What is it?" I ask, stepping up next to him.

Frowning, he says, "Smoke. Lots of it."

I make a thoughtful-sounding noise in the back of my throat, not necessarily caring what trouble has befallen these other travelers, whoever they may be. Besides, nine out of ten times, they'll probably try to jump us at knifepoint if we made any move to help them. Not something I want to deal with at the moment.

I shrug. "Maybe it's a fire that got a little out of control. Or maybe somebody decided to burn down a house. I don't know."

Monroe doesn't even acknowledge that I've spoken; instead, he steps off the road and strides purposefully into the trees. I sigh, already knowing that this is something we're going to regret. Why don't I take my slim chances and run? Well, because I probably won't get very far. Following closely behind, I scan the immediate area, sensing nothing but dead leaves, bewildered animals, and burning wood. Several loud thumps reverberate through both the air and ground, making even my teeth rattle. I swallow, wondering what in the hell is going on and why Monroe seems so intent on getting closer to it.

"What was that?" I whisper cautiously. "And why are we –"

Monroe pivots, whip-fast, and clamps a hand over my mouth. "No talking," he hisses angrily. "Whatever's happening is just beyond these trees. If it weren't for that loud hammering, we would've been heard. Haven't you learned _anything_?"

I can only glare at him until he removes his hand, but even then I decide it's just better to keep my mouth closed until Monroe gets what he came for. Which, come to think of it, he still hasn't mentioned to me…

We peek around a small copse of trees and are met with an unfortunate sight; utter chaos. A house is uncontrollably aflame – as I'd predicted – and the right half has already collapsed inward. Volumes of smoke billow into the cloudless blue sky, giant whorls filled with black ash and flying sparks. Even from several dozen feet away, my nostrils flare with the acrid smell. On the sagging front porch, two burly men are lugging someone out of the house, but it seems their attempts at rescue are being met with great struggle. I blink with surprise when the person they're trying to save comes into view; an elderly woman who can't weigh more than ninety pounds. She's thrashing about, and her face wears a fierce snarl.

"Who are they?" I ask, jerking my chin at the men. Now that I'm really getting a decent look at them, they don't look like the type to go barreling into a burning house to save a woman who clearly doesn't want to be saved.

"They probably belong to one of those single-minded tribes that live in the center of the Plains Nation," Monroe says, watching the scene critically.

Hmm. But that can't be right. Their clothes are military-style, if not slightly rumpled and badly ripped in several places. Then my eyes widen. The two men carrying the writhing woman have made it down the porch's two crumbling steps, and now that they're on solid ground, they easily regain their footing. They lift the woman up easily and throw her to the ground. She cries out in surprise, her back arching painfully, as she rolls to her side. At the same time, a third man comes shooting out of the house, a massive gun in hand. He whoops loudly and proceeds to pop off a few rounds into the sky. The woman covers her ears, and the two men shoot their third companion a murderous look.

"What you think you're doing?" demands the buffest of the three, approaching the one with the gun.

"Aw, c'mon, I just havin' some fun," he says, screwing up his nose. "This ol' bag ain't goin' nowhere."

"What we gonna do with her?" asks the other, smaller man. "She obviously ain't got any value, stupid old bitch." With that, he spits a giant glob of mucus right next to the cowering woman, who seems oblivious to the fact that the gunshots have ceased. Her aged hands continue to block out the rest of the world.

The buffest one narrows his eyes as he walks over to her. There's something about the look on his face that sends a tingle down my spine. He bares his teeth in an ugly attempt at a smile and brings back his heavy boot to kick her in the stomach. That's when I move into action; I can't watch this from the sidelines anymore. It's sickening.

Lightening fast, I grab a throwing star out of one of Monroe's pockets and whip it at the man. Even in a panic, my aim remains true; the silver weapon burrows deep into his neck. He makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, his eyes wandering in our direction. He seems to be a little slow on the uptake though; his two friends have already spotted us. The small man who'd been carrying the elderly woman lets out a battle cry and wraps his fingers around a miniature axe while the one with the gun wastes no time in aiming at us.

There's no time for explanations; Monroe curses under his breath and shoves me away just as the first few bullets spew between us.

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**I know, I know, there wasn't much Chass in this chapter, but the next one will have more than enough to make up for it~ **


	5. Chapter Five - Sociopathic Tendencies

**~Chapter Five: Sociopathic Tendencies~**

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_CHARLIE_

I stumble backwards, and my momentum carries me several feet through the underbrush. I hit the ground on my side but am on my feet within a split-second, a knife in hand. Thanks to my carelessness at the bar where those bastards drugged me, I don't have my crossbow, or any sufficiently threatening weapon. All I have is this knife and my hands. Fighting back a groan, I shift my position and prepare to face the onslaught, knowing these next few minutes will be difficult. After all, although these men appear to be missing a few screws, they're also heavily armed.

I can't see Monroe anymore, but I'm sure he's waiting for an opportunity to kill the two men. Either that, or he's already long gone. Who can tell? Maybe this is his chance to get rid of me once and for all. Maybe this is all a set-up. Maybe –

But I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. When did I allow Monroe's extreme paranoia to take hold of me? It's truly frightening to think that I didn't see this facet of his personality creep up on me.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," sings the smaller of the two men. I can hear him approaching from the other side of the tree I'm hiding behind. He's only a few footsteps away, and I'm aware that I have to act before he does or the outcome will most likely be his favor…which does _not_ benefit me, obviously.

"She looked to be a sweet lil thing, did'n she?" he continues in that sickly sweet voice. "I wonder –"

And that's when I hit him from the side. I plow into him with as much force as I can muster, which is a considerable amount thanks to all the training I've been doing of late. He smacks against the hard earth with a loud "_ooouff_!" and I don't waste any time in pressing the knife to his throat while simultaneously kicking his axe out of reach. Before I can say anything, however, the one with the gun rips me up off the ground and proceeds to jab the butt of the gun against my cheek. Red flashes across my field of vision, and alarm bells begin clanging in my head.

_Fuck you, Monroe_, I think angrily, trying to keep the tears at bay. My cheek throbs along with my frantic heartbeat, and my vision is now entirely out-of-sorts. I whirl about, but the man with the gun is aiming at me with a malicious grin on his face and the small man on the ground is recovering himself, stretching out a meaty hand for his axe, and I know this isn't good, this isn't how it's supposed to go, I must've screwed up in some way, and why did he _leave_ me here, _alone_, why did he –

_Monroe_? I think then, blinking, as a blurry form collides with the gunman, sending him flying. The gun is snatched away and turned on the threat faster than I can comprehend. Monroe shoots off three, four, _ten_ bullets into the man's head and chest. The smaller man flies into view, swinging his axe manically, but Monroe easily side-steps his wild aim and takes him down with another round. Bloody and broken, he twitches on the ground, somehow still alive, and as he reaches desperately for his fallen weapon, Monroe deliberately steps on his hand. I can hear the crunch of each individual bone as it breaks. I feel so dizzy all of a sudden. Surely I'd been facing death not thirty seconds before? I mean, this can't be Monroe, _Sebastian Monroe_, standing before me, come back to save my sorry ass?

My unexpected savior steps toward me and rubs a gentle hand along the cheek that's still on fire. I continue to blink at him as I struggle to find my way back to myself. It's a slow process, but suddenly everything seems just a little bit clearer. Just as I come to grips with the chaos that's unfolded, Monroe slaps me hard across the face, sending me reeling. For the second time in less than five minutes, I hit the ground on my side, completely taken aback by his actions. _Why would he do that_, I think frantically, _when he just went through all that trouble to save me_?

"What the hell?" I gasp, delicately touching the side of my face. I'm going to have an _enormous_ bruise there when I wake up tomorrow, I can tell you that.

But when I look up at his imposing figure, I wish I'd kept my mouth shut. Rage exudes from him in tsunami-sized waves. His lips tremble with barely suppressed violence. He still has the semi-automatic in hand, and I'm a little anxious about that. He's gripping it so tightly that his hand is turning an ugly shade of yellow-white. Even though I'm trying not to move my jaw too much, I can 't help it from dropping open. Monroe is _furious_…with_ me_.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" I ask, struggling to my feet. I figure the only sure way to combat Monroe is by putting up a front and throwing his anger right back at him. I just have to be careful not to overstep my boundaries. There've been ugly stories about Monroe and what happens when someone pushes him too far. I don't intend to be featured in one of those stories.

His jaw works soundlessly. "Charlie," he says softly, "why would you do that?"

_Way to be mysteriously vague_, I think, mentally rolling my eyes. "I have no idea what you're –"

"How the _fuck_ could you do that, Charlie?!" he roars, and I rear back as he steps into my bubble of space. "What were you _thinking_?" His voice is _so loud_ in the deadly silent clearing.

My mouth opens and closes twice like a hungry fish before I remind myself that I'm supposed to be acting the part of the Equally Furious Woman here. However, I really don't think that particular strategy is working out; he's kinda oblivious to my efforts. Ironically, Monroe is actually making me _truly_ angry, unlike before when I'd merely been pretending.

"Well, _excuse_ me," I retort, scoffing, "but I wasn't going to stand by while those men beat or raped or killed that innocent woman." Speaking of the elderly victim, I've almost completely forgotten about her. Guiltily, I scan the clearing, my eyes passing over the smoldering wreckage that once was a house, before landing on her still form. She appears unharmed but paralyzed – either by shock or fear, it's hard to tell.

"It's none of our fucking business," he growls. "_That's_ what you don't understand, Charlie. It doesn't matter what you see or hear; our first priority is self-preservation." He wraps his hand around my wrist before I can move away. "You never _think_ before you act, and that's what's going to get you killed." His blue eyes shine brighter than I've ever seen them, and there's a cold glint only just hidden in them that scares me.

"I didn't _have_ to think. The woman was in trouble, and _you_ obviously weren't going to do anything about it. I'm not the kind of person who just stands by." My breathing is stilted, and I hate that my fear is so transparent.

"As I well know," he says through gritted teeth, clearly trying to reduce his anger. I think the fact that I'm nervous by his behavior has registered, although I'm puzzled as to why he's making an effort on my part to calm down. "But endangering the both of us for one measly woman is beyond thoughtless. Can't you see that?"

"_No_," I spit, bypassing all attempts at cautiousness, "because I'm not _you_."

Monroe stops moving, and my breath catches in my throat. _Oh, my God, how could I have been so stupid_. _He's literally going to _kill_ me_. My fear returns with a vengeance. His hold on my wrist tightens until it's unbearable. I make a little noise in the back of my throat, and surprisingly, Monroe releases me at once. Circulation returns to my hand, and I rub it gently, keeping both eyes on the former general. His eyes drill holes into me, pinning me to the spot.

Shaking, I shuffle back, anticipating his inevitable outburst. He follows me with his eyes, and when he reaches out, I cringe so violently I'm afraid my vision will become helplessly distorted again. Monroe doesn't seem perturbed by my reaction, however; he grips my hips and pushes me back against a thick tree trunk. I open my mouth to protest, but this time he doesn't seem to have any problem with hurting me. He puts his hand over my mouth, fingers digging into my burning cheek.

"So," he says softly, his mouth right next to my ear. "Being like me is one of the worst things imaginable, in your eyes, is it?"

I know he expects a response, so I force myself to nod, although there are far worse imaginable crimes that beat being just like Sebastian Monroe. I can't exactly voice my thoughts aloud, though.

"Hmm," he ponders, eyes searching mine. He releases his grip on my waist…only to dig his own hips against me. My face immediately floods with bright pink at the contact, but I keep my gaze locked on his, unwilling to submit. He lays his palm flat on my chest. The warmth that exudes from his skin is intoxicating, and I find that I kinda…_like_ it. In response to this line of thought, I feel myself grow stiff with horror; what's going _on_?!

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Monroe continues, unaware of my reaction to him. Thank goodness. "However, you may be right in thinking that I'm…horrifying." He then unexpectedly plants a light kiss near my ear and moves away, breaking all contact between us. I take in a big gulp of air as I watch him walk towards one of the fresh corpses. He picks up the gun, which he'd tossed aside in his anger.

My brow furrows as I see him approach the woman. He touches her shoulder, and she hesitantly looks up at him. Her eyes rove over his figure. For some reason, her hands fall away from her ears as if something's pulled them off. Monroe says something to her in a low voice, the words indistinguishable from where I stand on the far side of the clearing. The elderly woman's lips twitch up in an approximation of a smile, and Monroe nods encouragingly.

Just when it looks like she's going to regain what's left of her sanity, the general slides the gun into position, takes aim, and pulls the trigger. The shots echo like a pair of thunderous canon booms. Two gaping holes appear in the center of the woman's forehead. There isn't a single trace of blood. Her mouth opens soundlessly and she falls heavily on her back.

Monroe turns and locks his unflinching gaze with mine. Without any explanation, he says, "Grab any weapons you can find. I'll be inside." Striding towards what once was a house, he doesn't bother to glance back. If he had, he would've seen the silent tears streaming down my face, my mouth open in horrified exclamation.


	6. Chapter Six - A Bullet's Intensity

**~Chapter Six: A Bullet's Intensity~ **

* * *

_CHARLIE_

I manage to find two rusty handguns and a pocket knife, which is really an impressive feat for someone in my frame of mind. Of course, my hands shake the entire time, and whenever I hear movement nearby I jump ten feet and fall to my knees. Monroe hasn't come out of the damaged house yet, and I'm dreading the moment he does. I just don't understand why he did what he felt he had to do. That woman…she was probably frightened out of her mind while those men tormented her and her house, _but we saved her_. Only, instead of comforting her and making sure she was uninjured before moving on, Monroe actually _shot her in the head_. How does that make any sense?! I can't wrap my mind around it. Why would he go to the trouble of saving her only to end her life immediately after?

I'm so utterly confused that I don't even notice that Monroe has exited the house until he's standing right next to me. I jerk away like a startled deer and skirt around him wearily. There's two machine guns slung over one of his shoulders, and I can see that he's added several more throwing stars to his belt. He looks so obviously dangerous that I feel paralyzed; how could I have allowed myself to travel with this…_monster_ all this time?

"This is all we can carry for now," he says gruffly, giving me a curious stare. "It's too bad we don't have a wagon; there's at least a dozen more guns in the basement."

_Yes, it's _such_ a travesty_, I think, enormously relieved that Monroe won't have a plethora of weapons at his immediate disposal.

He doesn't mention the dead woman lying less than a hundred feet away, so neither do I. He gestures for me to move in front of him, and I do without saying anything. I can hear the heavy tread of his footsteps behind me, too close behind me, but I'm struck voiceless. For the next two days, we continue eastward in this fashion. I don't talk or even look at Monroe, and he clearly seems content with this since he barely acknowledges my existence as well. We co-exist, but we both act like we're completely alone. At some points, particularly during the evenings when we're on the road, I almost forget that he's walking behind me. Almost, but not quite. Early in the morning on the third day, we come across other travelers: two men and one woman. And by the looks of things, this isn't a mutually-agreed upon situation.

"Keep going," says a man with a scraggly goatee, prodding the young woman in the back with a sharpened stick. They're walking towards us, but the sun is on them so I'm fairly sure they haven't spotted us yet. "Your pace is slowing."

"Why we traveling with this dumb whore again?" the other man asks. He has a permanent sneer etched on his face.

"Why do you think?" responds the first, and they both grin while the woman struggles along.

The sun suddenly moves behind a cloud, and Monroe makes a grab for my arm, but by then it's too late. The men squint at us simultaneously, and their pace slows, much to the gratification of the plundering young woman.

"Who's that?"

"Hell would I know?" Shifting uneasily, the bearded man tilts his chin up. "You there! How many are you?"

I can hear Monroe's teeth grind together. "Just the two of us," he says, all sociable, but I've grown familiar with him over these past few days, familiar enough to hear the dark undertones in his voice.

"Two?" repeats the bearded man, and then he sees me. He lets out a loud guffaw and, unbelievably, slaps his knee. "Oh, boy, I didn't see the pretty blonde one there at your side, mister. She's sure a looker."

Monroe instantly changes the topic, sensing where this line of conversation will surely lead. "Look, we're just passing by. We don't want any trouble."

The men are fifteen feet from us now, since Monroe has refused to stop moving. The young woman watches me with wide, scary eyes. Her hair hangs in her face, and it's as crazy as a bird's nest. The clothes she wears droop off her thin shoulders; she's obviously malnourished. My heart goes out to her, especially now that I know what these men are keeping her for.

"We ain't asking for trouble either, believe you me," the sneering one says. His companion nods his slow agreement, a cheery grin lifting his sore-looking lips.

Monroe blinks. "Well, alright then." He pokes me in the back to get me moving, and I step forward without pause. There's something odd about these men though. They remind me of the two looters back at the burning house, but there's something else. Their easy-going demeanor seems like a clever cover, a facade. I'm not sure if Monroe can see this as well, but I'm sure as hell not going to point it out to him.

Our two groups slowly shuffle past each other, the bearded man breathing in deeply as he comes within five feet of me. His creepy grin remains in place, unwavering. I swallow. Just when we've cleared each other and seem to be moving forward without any altercations, the bearded man calls to our backs, "What you use her for?"

Monroe's eyebrow twitches – evidence of his confusion – but he doesn't turn around. Taking my cue from him, neither do I. Instead, I stare straight ahead at the empty road stretching for miles before us. How great it would be to just get lost among the trees and wilderness without having a monster at my back, watching my every move.

"Say again?" he asks calmly, but now I'm positive that Monroe senses that something's not right.

"She your whore?" the bearded man says, and there's steel in his voice now.

That's it; that's all the proof I need. These men are only interested in one thing, and that's the only reason they've bothered with us for even this long. They want _me_, and they're not leaving until they get what they want. I've seen this type all too often.

I hear a small, insignificant _click_ behind me, and without blinking I hit the ground, my arms bracing against the asphalt. Bits of gravel dig into my palms, but there's no time to register the pain; I roll off to the side, not even knowing – or necessarily caring – how Monroe's faring. Bullets spray through the air above me and destroy the ground behind me. I'm on my feet instantly, crouching to keep myself as small of a target as possible. The bearded man is now occupied with fending off Monroe, who has slung one of his new guns around and is firing at him relentlessly. While they duel, the sneering man has herded his sorry-looking whore off the road and into the trees. My heart constricts when I see him try to grope her, and anger burns through my veins.

_Even now_? I think, incensed. _Even at a time like this, he can't keep his fucking hands off her_? Leaving Monroe to his own devices – after all, he's more than capable of taking care of himself; he's proven that – I sneak towards the other two, who thankfully don't notice my advances. Circling around the struggling woman, I position myself behind the man and proceed to kick the backs of his knees with all my strength. He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and loses his balance. The woman staggers off to the side and I implore her to move, shooing her with my hands.

"_Go_!" I yell. "Get out of here while you can!"

The sneering man turns on me immediately, swinging a club that must've been hidden beneath his fraying overcoat. I easily deflect his attacks while throwing in a few carefully placed punches. He's staggering around, obviously bewildered at the notion that such a slight girl can take him down in a matter of seconds, and while he's trying to regain his balance, while the young woman is running for her life, I prepare to go in for the final blow, readying myself, my focus so intense I suddenly can't hear or feel anything else, and I start to move towards him, start to lift my leg to smash his face in when –

My arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire _my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is on fire my arm is – _

_Burning_, I think wildly, _I'm burning alive_.

Screaming both inwardly and out loud, I stumble, my legs twisting. They suddenly slide out beneath me, and I fall headfirst to the ground, landing on my throbbing arm. I'm screaming still, the pain is _so intense_, and everything is an odd color – yellowish, reddish orange, like a flame. Somehow I know that the young woman has stopped running, that she's watching me, torn with indecision. I want to yell at her to _go, just go, leave me_, but I can't find my voice. The sneering man is sauntering towards me, his face a grotesque mask of hatred and unseemly lust, and I can't move, I can't move an inch, what am I going to –

But then a bizarre thing happens: his head explodes. Blood and bone and a gelatinous substance bursts into the air, smattering on trees and bushes and rotten animal carcasses. Where his head should be is a bloody stump. I'm more confused than ever, even as his body falls to the ground and the young woman reluctantly turns away from me and disappears within the shadows of the trees.

Then Monroe's there, his hands lightly moving over me. "Charlie?" he keeps asking. "Charlie, can you hear me? Everything's going to be fine, Charlie, I'm not going to let anything else happen to you, okay? Okay, Charlie?" And he flips me over so, so gently so I'm lying on my back, and now I can see him and the wild look that's come over his face. His pupils are dilated, and I feel the unreasonable urge to ask if he's recently been indulging in some kind of illegal substance. But instead I stare mutely up at him as his hands flutter over my body.

Monroe is still talking, something about him being "sorry, so sorry" and I don't understand what he means until his hands move under me and he scoops me up into his arms and I scream again while he apologizes over and over and over again but I can't hear him anymore and I can't see him either because –

Everything goes black.


	7. Chapter Seven - Concern

**~Chapter Seven: Concern~**

* * *

_BASS _

Sebastian Monroe had never been so frantic in his life, and to be honest, he's more than a little embarrassed by his behavior. While beating off that ugly hulk of a man who wanted to take Charlie from him, the girl herself had been preoccupied with saving the young, captive whore. At that point, Monroe had grudgingly come to accept that his little spitfire possessed a bit of a hero complex and that that aspect of her personality usually put the two of them into some sort of dangerous, life-threatening situation. Somehow, he'd learned to tolerate it.

Until earlier this morning, when the man fighting him had suddenly shoved him away, swung his gun around, and aimed the barrel directly at Charlie for no reason he could discern. The bullet had lodged itself into her upper arm, and he'd watched, horror-struck, as her feet flew out from under her and she'd landed in a heap on the ground, screaming incoherently. Even now, Monroe doesn't really remember the moments following this catastrophe; he had been in such a rage that everything's still blurred together. The next thing he knew, both men were dead, the whore was nowhere to be seen, and Charlie was in his arms. He had cradled her, his heart momentarily stopping as her body went completely limp; she'd fallen unconscious.

As luck would have it – and luck is a rare commodity for him – an abandoned first-aid station was set up no more than half a mile from where Charlie was shot. Monroe had taken her there, laying her gently on a stiff mattress while sorting through the chaotic array of medical supplies. He'd fed her several pain-killers and tended to her messy wound. The bullet hadn't dug too deep into her arm, thankfully, so he'd managed to get it out, although she'd lost a heap of blood in the process. Monroe, overcome with guilt, had done literally everything in his power to stop her from bleeding. Now, more than two hours later, with Charlie still in a deep slumber, Monroe eagerly awaits her awakening.

Deep in his gut, the most unfamiliar of emotions continues to stir within him: fear. Monroe had barely been able to breathe through the fear encompassing him in those brief moments when he thought the bullet had struck Charlie in the neck. He saw her go down, and everything stopped. Of course, somehow, Charlie survived. Yet Monroe's throat is still just as dry as it had been when he first caught an up-close glimpse of her body, and his nerves are frayed. He can't keep himself from pacing through the disordered first-aid camp. Raking his hands through his blonde locks, Monroe side-steps broken syringes and overturned gurneys, cursing out loud.

He feels nauseous, not just from fear, but from dread, anticipation, and worry. How will Charlie feel about what's happened? Will she blame him? Knowing his recent track record, that seems most likely. But what if she doesn't even remember the events leading up to and following her injury? What then? Not to mention he still hasn't talked to her about what went down at the burning house, where he shot that elderly woman. He's not sure either of them are ready for that conversation.

_Wake up, Charlie_, he thinks, growing agitated. _Wake up before I lose my fucking_ –

From inside a hastily-constructed tent, a bottle crashes to the ground. A noise – he thinks it's a moan – filters through the air, hitting Monroe like a physical force. _She's awake_, he thinks, astonished. _Right on cue_. His heart leaps within his chest and proceeds to race with an unhealthy speed. He approaches the tent and gingerly parts the curtain.

Charlie is sitting upright on the bed, one hand covering her eyes. The injured arm lies limply in her lap, and Monroe can tell by the expression on her face that it's hurting pretty badly. There are purplish bruises dotting her chin, thanks to the full contact between her face and the ground. Her chest rises and falls slowly, like she's making a concentrated effort to keep herself together. Monroe aches at the sight of her in pain.

"Well, look who's up," he says, unable to stop the ever-present gruffness from coating his words. It seems that whenever he talks to her, his voice automatically deepens and gets uncomfortably husky. Monroe hates that his emotions are so transparent, at least in his eyes; he usually manages to keep them under strict control.

She starts at the sound of his voice but doesn't look up. "What happened?" she asks in an uncharacteristic monotone.

He saunters into the tent, trying to keep up his devil-may-care front. "That fat bastard shot you in the arm," he says nonchalantly, though his anger still rises at the mention of those detestable men. "You've been out for a few hours."

She sighs, deep in her chest. Her eyes remain closed, and Monroe hates the fact that he can't see those beautiful baby blues, which usually show him how she's feeling. An open book, that's his Charlie.

"Where are those men?"

His mouth twitches. "Dead."

"You killed them?"

He nods, then remembers a beat too late that she's still not looking at him. "Yes, I killed them."

"The woman?"

He barely refrains from rolling his eyes; Charlie's compassionate nature sometimes frustrates him to the point of madness, just as her unpredictable hero complex tends to continually set his teeth on edge. "Long gone," he replies easily.

She makes a satisfied sound in the back of her throat, and that wordless noise seems to say that her all questions have been answered to her liking. Monroe licks his lips; he's never been an outstanding conversationalist, nor has he ever been particularly witty. Those traits are part of Miles' character. At the thought of his former friend, the general closes his eyes briefly and clenches his fist.

"Well," he announces abruptly, "since you seem back to your intolerable self, I think it's about time we continued moving eastward."

He rights himself, mentally shaking off his concern, but as he turns away, Charlie sighs again. This time, however, it's not anywhere _close _to being steady. "My arm," she says softly, staring at the ground. "It, um…it really hurts."

And just like that, Monroe's worry returns with a vengeance. He's also aware that this statement has dealt what Charlie probably assumes is a major blow to her dignity. For her, admitting pain is synonymous to admitting weakness. Monroe is at her side in just a few steps, and he slowly sits beside her on the sagging mattress.

"Of course it hurts," he says softly, imploring her to look at him. "You've been shot. That's not as easily fixed as a paper cut."

A small smile flickers across Charlie's lips, but it's gone even before Monroe's own lips can respond. "I should be stronger than this," she says finally, angrily. Her eyes meet his, boring holes into his head. "You and Miles and Aaron and even my mother have all been shot before, some of you multiple times, but not once has anyone complained, except during the initial pain." She shakes her head sharply. "No, you're right. We need to move on." Standing abruptly, Charlie grimaces, keeping her arm close by her side, as she pushes aside the curtain. Monroe grabs her good arm before she's made it ten feet.

"Charlie, hey," he says, trying to get her to stop without actually leaving any bruises on her skin. "I'm not sure what you've seen, but Miles, your mother, everyone you know who's been shot has suffered through just as much pain as you have, and they haven't dealt with it nearly as well as you are right now. In fact, I remember that Miles put up a huge fuss when he was shot the first time."

But Charlie's frown remains solidly in place. "I appreciate you trying to comfort me – and God only knows why – but it's unnecessary. I told you I was fine, and I still am. Let go of my arm so we can get out of here."

"We're not going anywhere until you calm down," Monroe snaps, his patience wearing thin. If only she would just _listen_ to him...

"I said, _let go_," Charlie yells, and lashes out at him just as he turns her body so they're facing each other head-on. The blow lands solidly on his jaw, sending him back two steps. Her eyes are on fire. "I don't know what the _fuck_ you –"

But she doesn't get another word out. Monroe silences her the only way he knows how – with a feather-light kiss. Their lips barely make contact, but it's enough to shut Charlie up for good. She gasps as he leans away, and Monroe blinks, his mind reeling. He didn't expect such intensity upon touching her.

"What –" she says breathlessly, a wild glint in her eyes. "How did…why….Jesus, what are you _thinking_?"

Monroe, attempting to gather his scattered wits, says simply, "I need you to calm down."

"I _am_ calm!" Despite this sentiment, her voice rises with unconcealed hysteria. She's obviously just as shocked by his actions as he is.

"Look, I don't want you hurting yourself. Just…just take it easy, okay?" He tilts his head so she has no choice but to meet his eyes. "Can you do that?"

Her lips move soundlessly. He nods. "Good."

Monroe guides her back inside the tent, but no sooner have they settled down again when Charlie says something that stops him cold. "I still haven't forgotten what you did to that woman."

Grinding his teeth – he'd assumed that entire fiasco had slipped her mind in light of recent events – Monroe runs his hands through his tousled hair. "Yes, Charlie, I killed her."

Her eyes cool, as does her voice. "How can you say that so callously? Who just _does_ something like th-"

Monroe is in front of her in an instant, cupping her chin in his rough hands. Her eyes widen at the fierce expression on his face. "It's growing increasingly difficult for me to keep my hands off you, so if you wouldn't mind shutting your goddamn mouth for three seconds, maybe I could explain some things."

"You –" she starts indignantly.

"Shut your _fucking_ mouth, Charlie," he hisses, his face contorting with rage. "Jesus Christ, what will it take for you to open your goddamn eyes? You really want to know why I killed that woman?" He stares at her, waiting for an answer, his mouth set in a thin line. Releasing her chin, he steps back, truly afraid he'll hurt her somehow, and places his hands on an old bureau that holds a plethora of medical bandages.

"She was extra baggage," he says, his voice still simmering with fury. "We don't have the supplies necessarily to sustain three people, and I think you're forgetting that _she was a stranger_. My priority is keeping _you_ safe, Charlie, and I can't do that if I have one more person to look after. You," he repeats, swiveling to face her, "are my main concern. Okay? Do you understand now?"

He kneels down in front of her. "I can't afford you getting hurt. That's not on my agenda. So just…just…" At a loss for words, Monroe rubs one of his hands over his face tiredly. "_Sit_."

And, much to his relief, she does.

* * *

_CHARLIE_

And, much to my shock, I think I _do_ understand now.

Monroe is on one knee before me, his hands lightly touching my legs, as if trying to get me to comprehend what he's saying through physical touch alone. My mouth is open, gaping, but there's really nothing I can do about that. How I look right now is of minor concern. Sebastian Monroe has just stated, in the most simplest terms possible, that I am priority number one in his eyes.

How did that escape my notice? What have I done to make him feel this way about me? And most importantly, what are we going to do now that it's out in the open?

Without even realizing it, I bring my unimpeded hand to my mouth, where I lightly brush it across my lips. The lips that Monroe kissed. He was so gentle, almost as if he'd been afraid of…what? Touching me? Breaking me? I'm not sure. God, I'm so confused.

Monroe doesn't seem to be faring any better. He's braced himself on the bureau across from the bed, and his head is bowed. Does this mean he's ashamed of what he's revealed to me? Or maybe he's just tired, like he said. I have to know. Swallowing, I stand up on shaky legs and reach for his shoulder.

"Monroe," I say, unsure, and nearly lose my balance when he abruptly whirls around. His face exudes raw desperation, and this expression seems so out-of-place on his usually stern, controlled face that anything I'd been meaning to say flies right out of my head.

"Just one more," he pleads, and before I can ask any more questions, his lips are back on mine.

* * *

**;)(; **


End file.
